A Mortal Pain
by Dragonlord Stephi
Summary: The Morrow Days have been resurrected, but the New Architect banishes them (in full Denizen bodies, mind you) to a mortal life, basically adding up to an equation with emotionally-stunted immortal beings with a superiority complex... trying to get jobs, pay rent, and remain secret. Perhaps their biggest challenge is not killing each other... Absolutely nothing can go wrong, right?
1. A Better Place? A Prologue of Sorts

… A Better Place? (A Prologue of Sorts)

When Saturday opened her eyes, all she could see was darkness, all around her.

She couldn't move, limbs frozen and heavy, so cold that it was painful. She'd never experienced frostbite in the House- after all, temperature was regulated, and she was a Denizen, an immortal being not susceptible to such ailments in the first place- but she thought that if she did, it would feel like this.

Then, slowly, the darkness gave way to a pale grey, and warmth began to flow into her body. Saturday tried to plead for help, hoping Sunday wasn't anywhere close, but no noise came out. She thought for sure she was going to die when the grey abruptly changed to a plastered ceiling.

_What the heck?_

"Oh, you're awake!"

Saturday turned her head to see who had spoken. It was a taxing effort just to do that little.

Wednesday.

"What… happened?" Saturday asked. Wednesday was no longer in her whale form, or even the ugly Denizen form she temporarily occupied using the Key- she was downright beautiful, back to the way she was before any of the trouble with the Will started, and, for once, she wasn't eating anything. Not even chewing. She didn't even look hungry. "You're… and I thought I…"

Memory came with pain, and Saturday bolted upright, clutching her stomach. Visions of a cruel, smiling masked face with eyes scowling as it plunged a knife into her belly brought a fiery ache into her, and she coughed, spitting out blue blood into her hands. "I thought…" she repeated weakly.

"We're alive, Saturday," Wednesday said. "I don't understand it myself… but one moment I was dying in the Border Sea… and the next I'm here. According to the New Architect, it's been several days since I… but he said that somehow, our souls were saved, and he was able to fashion bodies for them."

"The… New Architect? Arthur?"

"The very same."

"But why would he do that for us?" Saturday asked.

"Something about how if he didn't, our souls would neither be dead nor alive… a fate worse than either, he said."

"But where are we?"

"MY HOSPITAL!"

"Oh, crap," Saturday said as Friday burst in.

"Isn't it wonderful, m'dear? We're going to have mortal lives! We still have Denizen bodies, but still… we'll have soooo many experiences!"

"I couldn't care less," Saturday snapped. "So when is he going to come here and tell us we can have our positions in the House back?"

Wednesday and Friday exchanged glances. "Actually, he made it quite clear he never will," Wednesday said, almost apologetically. "Sorry."

"What're YOU apologizing for?" Saturday asked, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Great. Now what?"

"Well, Sunday has an apartment," Friday answered, "and we all live in it."

"Who pays rent?"

"You do."

"I just woke up!"

"Yes, well, so did we. Mere moments ago, actually. Sunday got a day's head start, so he rented it out and put your name on the lease."

"But I don't have a name!"

"Actually…" Wednesday grinned sheepishly. "We all do. Friday's name is Freya, I'm Wendy, Thursday's Thomas, Tuesday's Timothy, Monday's Marcus, Sunday's Sonny, and you're… Susan."

"I AM NOT A SUSAN!" Saturday shouted, and winced at a fresh onslaught of pain. "Oi, how come you guys aren't writhing in pain?"

"We weren't killed the way you were," Friday shrugged.

"Nonsense," Saturday growled. "You were devoured by Nothing. Don't give me that crap."

Friday smiled. "Tylenol does wonders."

"Oh, go die in a hole," Saturday scowled.

"We'd love to," Wednesday said, "but seeing as the New Architect forbade suicide…"

"And you're just going to listen to him?"

"He scares me."

"Sure, as a boy he's just your savior, but as the New Architect, he's big and scary," Saturday scoffed.

"No need to be such a jerk," Friday said.

"All right, I'm sorry. Happy?" Saturday stood, legs trembling slightly. She drew near to the mirror on the opposite wall. How close to her previous body was this new one? Pretty close, apparently. Her hair was still azure blue, her eyes an even lighter shade, though they seemed to have lost their iciness. Her skin was no longer as orange-tinted as when she'd been a Denizen, taking on a paler and more common mortal tone, and she wasn't anywhere near the resplendent eight feet she'd been in the House. In fact…

"Am I only pushing six feet?"

"We're all pushing six feet," Friday replied. "That's pretty tall for around here. For some reason, we're all the same height. Sunday too."

_So I'm Sunday's height and have to live in a mortal world, huh? I can manage._

"I…" Saturday grinned, "will do just fine." Already, thoughts of reconquering the House filled her mind. "Just fine."

Friday and Wednesday exchanged glances yet again, and then gazed back at her again, worried. "Are you thinking of anything stupid?"

"No," she relented, visions of herself in the Gardens fading. It WAS stupid, she knew. She should be content with what she had. At the least, she could try to be better than Sunday in all he did.

It briefly crossed her mind that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to invest all of her emotions, energy, and thoughts into that goal, and that she should just be happy to be herself.

Then again, that never was one of her virtues.


	2. Finances

Erm… We Need Money

**A/N: This one is short. I promise the next one will be longer.**

"So, to make a short story even shorter, we need money. Soon."

Sunday eyed them all- Monday, snoring away; Tuesday, obviously itching to doodle something; Wednesday, who was trying to decide whether to give into the temptation of eating the Doritos or not; Thursday, clearly reminiscing about some previous battle that won him glory and possibly Dawn's affections; Friday, either daydreaming or just being airheaded as usual; and Saturday, ever the habitual Denizen, who was scratching out a transcript of the meeting, despite her loathing of him. He knew that she was doing it more out of habit and mere boredom than remnant loyalty- after all, she had none. He was pretty sure she'd rather plunge herself back into Nothing than remain alive, still his underling.

"I said," he repeated, glaring, "that we need some money soon."

Tuesday shrugged. "We'll invest some money in stocks and I'll use my economy manipulator machine to turn us into instant millionaires. No big deal."

"No… big… deal," Saturday repeated, writing the words down.

"That'd be a good idea," Sunday growled, "if we had any money to invest!"

"What, are we bone-dry broke?" Wednesday asked.

"Broke?" Thursday repeated, stepping off of memory lane.

"Saturday," Sunday sighed.

"Expenses coming up," she said, pulling a sheet of paper out of midair, pen still writing without her hand directing it as she read aloud. "Current expenses, including insurance-"

"A waste of money," Thursday shrugged. "We don't get sick, and we don't die."

Saturday scowled. "Current expenses, including mandatory by law insurance- which it'd be a good idea to get, to, y'know, BLEND IN- add up to about $4000 a month. If we do not get a steady income of at least that amount, we will not be financially secure and will end up, as these mortals say, toast." She waved her hand, and the extra sheet disappeared as she grabbed the pen again.

"So why don't we just print money?" Tuesday asked. "We're Denizens, we have sorcery on our side. We won't get caught."

"Magic is restricted outside the apartment," Wednesday pointed out. "The New Architect gave Sunday plenty of rules, and that was one of them. Since mortals would receive the money…"

"It'd count as going outside the acceptable parameters," Saturday finished.

"Sorcery's nice," Friday sighed.

Ignoring her, Sunday said, "One of us needs to get a job. I am immediately ineligible. The previous lord of the Universe will not degrade himself to joining the inferior workforce. I am not a proletarian."

"Tuesday could easily enter manufacturing," Thursday suggested, "and I am considering enrolling in the pathetic militia these mortals count as a military."

"I might as well apply for a job as a secretary," Saturday added, still writing, "even though I am vastly superior to the majority. How does 'experience since the dawn of time' sound?"

"Too conspicuous," Sunday shrugged. "Make something up."

"Being the lord of the universe's secretary still makes you a secretary," Tuesday said. "Superior my foot."

"I am a SUPERIOR secretary, my friend," Saturday corrected.

"Is that your favorite adjective?" Thursday asked.

"I like 'inferior' too, so long as it's not referring to me."

"Since Tuesday's so greedy, I wonder if he'll get arrested for tax evasion?" Friday muttered.

"Okay, what is up with her?" Monday asked. "She's a bit stranger than usual."

"I think she's on experiencing withdrawal," Wednesday sighed, hands shaking as she held the Doritos bag. She was clearly trying to resist the urge to rip it open and devour the contents whole. "She hasn't had any experiences in a while, and it's probably affecting her. I mean, I haven't eaten anything in days, and I'm… so… close… to… cracking."

Saturday reached over, yanked the Doritos out of her hands, and wrote, 'Destroy' with her pen. Nothing happened, so she repeated the motion, then scowled in disgust and stood. "Stupid mortal writing instrument. The Sixth Key was SOOOO much better." She walked to the umbrella stand, picked one up, and pointed at the Dorito bag, barking some of the Architect's sorcerous words.

The Doritos bag turned to dust.

Saturday sat back down and eyed Wednesday. "When there's temptation, get rid of it," she hissed.

"So why didn't you?" Wednesday shot back.

"Oh yes, it's SO EASY to just NOT LOOK UP for ten thousand years," Saturday retorted.

Sunday frowned. "Was that a reference to my gardens?"

**Next chapter: Saturday applies for a job, Wednesday considers culinary school, and Friday falls in love with talk shows like Dr. Phil, Oprah, and Tyra Banks.**

**Oh, and there are some girl scouts who were dumb enough to ask the previous lord of the universe to buy their cookies.**


	3. We're Not Good at This

**We're Not Good At This**

"Not only did I lose to you, I have to pay your bills! Where's your pride in that, hmm?"

"You didn't lose to me, you lost to my brother. YOU should be worshipping the fact that I'm allowing you to live here!"

"Allowing ME to live here!" Saturday screeched. "It's my name on the lease!"

Thursday scowled. Day three and they were at each other's throats. All the yelling and fighting had been capped until just ten minutes ago, when Saturday had arrived home from a day job hunting to discover Sunday had spent all day gardening instead of doing something 'productive.'

"Just tell me what I'm supposed to do, woman!" Sunday snapped. "Be a prole?"

"Working does not make you a proletarian!" Saturday shot back. "I am not a prole."

"No, you're just their secretary."

"I never liked you!"

"Likewise!"

They both snorted and retreated to their rooms.

Thursday shrugged. "They sound like old married couples," he said to himself, and chuckled. He hoped neither of them heard that.

* * *

"So, Miss Susan Rella." The interviewer's cold, hard eyes stared into Saturday, as if saying, 'I know your secret!'

'Susan Rella,' which she'd taken from 'umbrella,' sounded a lot better in her head than it did aloud, Saturday decided. She suddenly wished her forged documents, expertly crafted by Tuesday, would pass scrutiny.

But all the interviewer said next was, "Are you a fan of Katy Perry?"

"Um, no. Why?"

"Your hair."

"Oh. It's… a genetic condition." It was a lame excuse, but the best she had. _Who's Katy Perry? I bet she can't look as superior as I do with blue hair._

"So, you want to be a secretary here?"

"Yes."

The interviewer glanced down. "What're you writing?"

Saturday blushed and showed him the paper. "Just a transcript of the meeting. It's a bad habit, I know."

He took it, and an expression that Saturday could call only comical passed over his face. His eyes boggled. "You write like calligraphy! And it's a near-perfect transcript!"

_It IS perfect, fool, _Saturday thought sourly.

The interviewer leaned forward, looking far more interested in her as a hiring prospect. "So, Susan Rella… you want to be a secretary for our company?"

* * *

Wednesday groaned and flopped to the other side of the bed. It was already two in the evening, but she had no drive to get out of bed. Whatever for? To watch television with Friday? To be Thursday's punching bag? To see Tuesday complain of his lack of artistic originality, or be a spectator to the ongoing war between Saturday and Sunday? Not to mention… she wanted food.

She heard the incessant garbling of the TV, words scrambled through the wall. Closer voices she heard more clearly, and she recognized them as Friday and Tuesday. "What's up with her today?" Tuesday asked. "It's 2:00 and she hasn't gotten out of bed yet."

"Midlife crisis," Friday replied succinctly. "I bet it's the lack of food. It's sapped her will."

"Like how lack of experiencing has turned you into a TV addict?"

"It's not the same!" Friday cried.

Wednesday smirked. Midlife crisis? At her age? She felt certain that if she would have one, it would have been millennia ago.

Sliding out of bed, she quickly changed out of her nightgown into jeans and a tee. The clothing wasn't at all to her taste. She missed her knee-high admiral boots, her crisp naval uniform with golden epaulettes and trim, her tricorn hat she wore on special occasions. She hadn't worn that ensemble since before she became a whale. Before her death, she'd worn her fanciest clothing for the Will and Lord Arthur, but that wasn't the same as her time-honored naval general's outfit.

She walked out and glared at Friday and Tuesday to tell them she heard every word, then flopped onto the couch.

"Are you okay, Wednesday?" Friday asked.

"Need… food…" Wednesday groaned.

"You're a Denizen. You don't need to eat."

"Rephrase: _want_… food," she moaned.

"You just need motivation!" Friday exclaimed. "Something to occupy your mind with, like-"

"Le Delicious Culinary School!" interrupted the TV.

Wednesday perked up. "Culinary school? I could do that."

"But it might be hard to cook stuff and not eat it," Friday pointed out.

"I could still try!" Wednesday protested.

Friday faltered. "Well, maybe Sunday could give the final say, but…"

Wednesday deflated.

A door slammed as Sunday, soaking wet and holding a bag of gardening tools, strode in. "Curse the rain! And curse Saturday for taking the only umbrella!" He threw the bag onto the ground, kicked off his shoes, and pushed some of his soggy green hair out of the way of his emerald eyes.

"I wanttohavesomemotivationanddrivesocanIgotoculinaryschoolpleasepleasepleasepleaseplease," gushed Wednesday, all in one breath.

"What?" Sunday raised an eyebrow.

"I want to go to culinary school," Wednesday repeated, slower.

"Well, you'll have to wait," Sunday snapped, and Wednesday realized he was not in the best of moods. "We don't have the money for that right now."

"Maybe I could get a scholarship," she mused hopefully.

"You have to know how to cook, which defeats the purpose," Sunday retorted.

"Not really. Tuesday could teach me. He can replicate… um, recipes."

"Wednesday, I really don't think this is a good ide-"

The doorbell rang, ostentatiously loud. Sunday turned his glaring gaze from Wednesday to the door. "That better not be Saturday, because SHE HAS A KEY TO THIS APARTMENT!" He yanked open the door, preparing to unleash his fury, when he was greeted with an unfamiliar, spritely chorus.

"Would you like to buy Girl Scout cookies?"

"What?" He glared at them, the three little mortal girls who'd dare try to actually sell HIM anything. The only person in the world who hated salesmen more than Grim Tuesday himself… was Sunday. To their credit, however, the girls' resolve only strengthened, and they held up a box.

"We're selling cookies to fund the Girl Scouts."

"To promote patriotism!" one of them added.

"And get a new bike. The person who sells the most gets a new bike. Will you help us get a new bike, mister?" They all asked at once.

"Um, no."

"At least try a sample!" they pleaded.

"No, thank you."

"But they're delicious!"

"Not likely," he snorted.

Dejected, the girls frowned and sighed. Perhaps some remnant bit of his mortal side, which he was sure he'd quashed long ago, rose up, because he found himself reaching into his wallet. He watched more than felt himself giving them a crisp twenty, even though he knew he really shouldn't be spending that money, and asking them for as much as it would buy.

Then he snapped back into Denizen thoughts and Denizen actions, with the minor side-effect of crankiness, which usually accompanied his switching between Denizen and mortal sides. "Scram!" Intense anger was an unfortunate accompaniment of his conflicting persona, and this time, no guilt welled up as he watched them jump and run off.

* * *

Saturday didn't know why, but she was absolutely certain she'd get the job. She was so happy, she was twirling her umbrella and singing as she came up the steps, a quick, lively melody the Architect had composed so long ago. Saturday hadn't sung for at least ten thousand years. In fact, she doubted she'd been happy during that time either.

_I wonder if the New Architect did something?_

She closed the umbrella before opening, though she didn't believe in the foolish superstition that an open umbrella indoors would bring bad luck. It was habit. Although, when she recounted the scarce times she'd ever done it, there was a strange pattern… The night she and Wednesday went 'overboard' in the Border Sea on a certain Secondary Realm stimulant, she'd done it, and the next day, the Will gave Sunday the Gardens that were rightfully her inheritance.

The second time was before she attempted to kill the Piper, and he had somehow managed to survive, so THAT little scheme went well…

The third time, she'd been practicing a spell that required an open umbrella, and it had been raining (as it always was in the Upper House). Rather than go outside and get wet, she decided to chance it in her office. The very next day, Arthur appeared in the Upper House proper, despite her planning to keep him in the Middle, and allow Friday to deal with him.

The fourth and final time, she'd been in the Gardens, confronting Sunday and oh-so-confident.

The Piper stabbed her all but three minutes later.

_Coincidence? _Saturday thought grimly, her good mood now ruined. She didn't believe in luck, but she did believe the Architects, the Old One and Art included, enjoyed screwing with peoples' lives.

Three bawling girls in ridiculous clothing that all looked the same rushed down the stairs, babbling something about a scary green-haired man. Saturday shook her head. "Tuesday is the usual suspect," she muttered. "Architect have mercy on the souls of the last salesmen I sent to the Far Reaches." Though they did mention green hair, so that meant Sunday probably had something to do with it… unless there were other scary green-haired men in the apartment complex, which she severely doubted.

She entered the apartment to see Wednesday and Tuesday arguing about whether or not it was necessary to shell eggs before adding them to flour. Sunday was trimming a bonsai plant, Thursday was lifting a dumbbell and flexing in the corner, and Friday moaned, "We need to speed it up. This fic's plot is too slow. The next ones will have more plot and be faster."

"What?" Saturday threw the keys onto the counter. "What're you talking about?"

"The fourth wall is coming down," Friday replied ominously. "I suppose we ought to mend it."

"…OPRAH!" heralded the TV.

"Oooh! Oprah!" Friday cried in glee.

"I'm telling you," Wednesday exclaimed, "the shells don't go into the cake mix!"

"YES, they do! Argh! Shows what you know! And YOU want to be a chef?"

Saturday grimaced, checked her umbrella, which was still tightly closed, and frowned. "Did someone open an umbrella indoors, or is it just me?"


	4. Taxes, Cell Phones, Love Interests

**Taxes, Cell Phones, Love Interests… Oh, and Arthur**

Friday glared at herself in the mirror and scowled. Her pinkish hair, which had far more brown hues than she remembered it did in the House, was growing at a rapid rate. Already a full four inches! It took her several hundred years to grow it out that much in the House. She might even need to get the dreaded _haircut _soon.

Friday was in the bathroom, the most useless room in the apartment. The title used to belong to the kitchen, but now Wednesday was busy as a bee in there twenty-four seven (much to Saturday's chagrin, whose lone job now had to pay for the newly-implemented food budget as well). Friday doubted Wednesday even slept more than an hour or two a night now, she was so obsessed with making pies and whatnot. The only real thing the bathroom was (scarcely) used for was the mirror and the occasional bubble bath, the porcelain throne long deemed "absolutely unnecessary" by Lord Sunday. Saturday had wanted it removed, but Sunday had refused on the grounds that it was needed to make the apartment seem more mortal-like, but was more probably just to irritate the other Day.

The bubble baths were reserved for one day a month, called Bath Day, so as to save on hot water. Saturday had wanted to get rid of that too, but the other six outvoted her. The next Bath Day was a full three weeks away, and no one else ever came in during that time, except for Thursday in the morning to shave for House-knows-what-reason, but he was usually done with that before Friday even woke up. It occurred to her that this meant the bathroom was nearly always deserted, making it an effective place to get away from the others.

Friday grinned. Perhaps the bathroom wasn't so useless after all.

Then her smile vanished. There was no television in the bathroom, and there was no way she was going to miss her new "Amazing Three"- Dr. Phil, Ellen, and Oprah. Unless she could somehow get a TV in the bathroom, it was out of the question.

Friday's love of talk shows and the occasional episode of _The Bachelor _or _Dance Moms _was well-known to the other six, and woe betide anyone who tried to keep her from them! Thursday, Tuesday, Monday, and Sunday had planned a night watching mortal action flicks like _The Bourne Legacy _and _Johnny English, _and they had rented out a DVD-player for the occasion. However, Friday was watching a new episode of _The Bachelor _where the man was about to announce who he planned to marry, and to make a long story short, they couldn't sit down on the sofa long enough to watch their movies anyway.

Friday moved a stray strand of hair, winked at herself, and then dashed out of the bathroom, screaming. "NOBODY TOUCH THE REMOTE! OPRAH'S ABOUT TO COME ON!"

* * *

"What the-" Saturday complained.

"Language," Tuesday admonished.

"Shut up," Saturday shot back. "What does all this even mean?"

She and Tuesday were engaged in a difficult, laborious, seemingly never-ending, and unfair battle against every mortal's worst foe: taxes. Tax Day was drawing near, and Saturday had to admit just looking at the forms gave her a headache, so she had employed the most money-savvy Denizen around to aide her.

"It means we have to pay the government for when we retire," Tuesday explained. "They'll give the money back."

"Sure they will," Saturday snorted. "Oh, I see. It's a lot like back in the House. Here's the salary tax, and the investment… ah ha! If the government here is anything like the bureaucracies in the House, I'll never see this money back."

"Probably," Tuesday admitted. All of the Days, in the good ol' times of living in the House and ruling the Universe, had paid taxes to Lord Sunday. Saturday and Sunday were exempt, and Saturday herself received a generous 'Deputy's bonus' every tax day. Then there were ridiculous minor fees to be paid to other parts of the House for various services, and even stupid fines such as Insolence, Blatant Interference, Slacking Off (Monday got plenty of those), and- Tuesday remembered the day Thursday was given one of these- an Ugly Hairdo That Offends the Higher Officers. On top of that, the interest was so bad it made one want to puke. Naturally, not one shilling, farthing, roundel, or whatever currency one's demesne used, was ever returned.

"So do you get it now?" Tuesday asked.

"Yes. Why do I have to do this? Why can't you or Sunday pitch in and help a bit?"

"Because you're the one with the job, so you know how the money works."

Saturday scowled. Tuesday could tell exactly what she was thinking. Probably something along the lines of _Even stuck in the mortal world I have to do all the work around here, actually running everything._

* * *

Several hours wasted on taxes later, Saturday plopped down onto the sofa and reached for the TV remote. Despite Friday not even being in the living room, her soft and subdued voice suddenly called out, "Leave it!"

Irritated, Saturday drew her hand back and turned on the radio instead. That Katy Perry woman who her boss thought for sure Saturday was a fan of was on, singing her head off about how she roars or whatnot. It just worsened her mood, so she turned that off too and casually slung over to peek over Sunday's shoulder to see what he was doing. "Whatcha doing?" she asked, pretending she had no idea.

"Taking care of my bonsai tree," Sunday replied. "It's too rainy outside to tend to my part of the apartment complex's garden, so I'm taking care of this."

"Nice," Saturday said, a bit absent-mindedly, as if she just said it for the sake of saying something.

"Do you mind? I'm working."

That elicited a snort and her drawing away, since she didn't think taking care of a plant was 'working.'

Saturday picked up a novel on the bookcase that the last tenant had left behind, something about a Harry Potter kid. She had nothing else to do, so she sat back down on the couch and started to read it. She had no real opinion of it, just that the mortals acted very irrationally and stupidly. Millenniums of writing records had lent her superb reading speed, and she had finished the entire book in about ten minutes, bringing her back to square one: something to do.

The doorbell rang.

"Will someone get that?" she asked, placing the book back on the shelf and looking for something a bit more lengthy. She found a thick volume titled _Eldest, _which was about seven hundred pages. _Good. That'll give me something to do for the next… half hour. Great._

The doorbell rang again.

Groaning, Saturday opened it herself. "Yes?"

"Good evening, Ms. Rella."

"Mr. Ronne! Good evening." Mr. Ronne was the landlord of the apartment complex, and one of the dumbest mortals Saturday had ever come across. He was tall, thin, and good-looking by mortal standards, but he wasn't very intelligent. "Is something the matter?"

"Oh, not really," he shrugged. "I just wanted to give you the new apartment rates." He handed her a sheet of paper.

"Are they cheaper now?" she asked.

"What? No! Of course not! Not in this economy."

Saturday took a quick glance at them before turning her attention back to Mr. Ronne. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that the new numbers did not bode well. "Well, we'll be sure to have the rent ready," she said. "Do these take effect next month?"

"Yes," Mr. Ronne said, voice dull and flat. He frowned. "Your hair's longer."

"I suppose it is." Saturday forced a chuckle. "I'm growing it out."

"Well, I thought you'd dyed your hair blue, but I don't see any signs of your natural-"

"I, um, have a genetic condition," Saturday fibbed. If it worked on her boss, it would work on Mr. Ronne. Hopefully. "Blue IS my natural hair color."

"I've heard of people with conditions like that," he said, the frown disappearing. He shrugged.

"I guess I'll see you around, then?" Saturday said.

"Wait. Um, Susan, is Wendy there?"

Wednesday poked her head out of the kitchen. "Oh, hi!" She dashed over immediately. "Yes, Mr. Ronne?"

"I wanted to thank you for the cherry pie," he said. "Maybe sometime I could show you my mashed potato recipe?"

"That sounds great!"

"Y'know, we could discuss recipes over dinner sometime," he mumbled, voice suddenly dropped. "How about next Wednesday?"

"Perfect!" Wednesday said.

"Is eight all right?" He was blushing profusely by now. Blushing. Saturday shook her head. She was glad Denizens were not easily susceptible to such pigmentation of the skin that could so easily give away one's feelings.

Though they did get red in the face a lot when they were angry…

"Fine by me," Wednesday replied, ruining her train of thought.

Mr. Ronne smiled as if he had just conquered the Trojans, waved, and dashed away. Which was just as well, because Saturday was ready to rip his heart out. She slammed the door and advanced upon Wednesday. "HE WAS ASKING YOU OUT, YOU IDIOT!"

"So?"

That infuriated her. "SO? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, _SO_?" Saturday stopped, took a deep breath, and said her next sentence in a very low, frightening voice. "He is unworthy to come to you asking for your affections. He is a mere mortal, and you are a Denizen, a higher being."

"So I can't have dinner with him?" Wednesday said.

"Do you have feelings for him?"

"Not really."

"Do you plan on getting feelings for him?"

"Who plans on falling in love?" Wednesday retorted. "You can't help it!"

"Well, you'd better."

"What do you mean, I'd better?" Wednesday challenged. "I was a whale for several thousand years, and from what I've heard of the others, you've been quite beastly yourself! Just because you were our superior in the House doesn't mean you have to boss me around here too!"

"I am trying to protect you from flippant-"

"Oh, yes, just like how you were PROTECTING ME from the Will when you turned on me!"

"I prolonged your life!"

"Maybe I didn't want to spend it as a whale!" Wednesday shot back.

"YOU CAN'T GO ON DATES WITH A MORTAL!" Saturday shouted. "Have you been seeing him?"

"Maybe I have. Who're you to tell me what I can and can't do?"

"I AM YOUR SUPERIOR AND YOUR FRIEND!"

"NO, YOU'RE NOT!" Wednesday exclaimed. "YOU'RE NOT MY SUPERIOR, BECAUSE A SUPERIOR WOULD BE _BETTER_, A ROLE MODEL, AN EXAMPLE. YOU SUCK AT BEING A SUPERIOR! AND YOU'RE EVEN WORSE AT BEING A FRIEND! A FRIEND WOULDN'T TURN ANOTHER INTO A WHALE, AND A FRIEND WOULD CARE MORE ABOUT THE OTHER PERSON THAN HOLD ONTO RIDICULOUS NOTIONS THAT HAVE BEEN DISPROVEN, LIKE DENIZEN SUPERIORITY!"

Then she stormed away, leaving behind a stunned Saturday.

* * *

Saturday had heard somewhere that a working woman required a cell phone in this modern world. That was why she found herself making excuses to get out of the apartment, unable to stand the tension Wednesday had brought up, and hustled to the nearest Best Buy.

"So what's the difference between a smart phone and a normal one again?" she asked.

The saleswoman looked at her as if Saturday had just crawled out from under a rock. "A smart phone has applications, can play games, usually has a touch screen, yada yada."

"Is it better than the other one?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'll take it."

Several minutes later, after signing a contract for a year of service, Saturday tried calling for the first time.

"Hello?" Sunday picked up.

"Why does it sound so distant?" Saturday said. "Hello?"

"Hellooo?" Sunday said. "Who's there?"

"Hellooooo!"

"Helllllooooo!"

Sunday hung up.

Saturday turned. "He didn't hear me."

The saleswoman pointed to the phone she still held up to her ear. "Ma'am, that may be because you were holding it upside down and speaking into the speaker."

"It's called the speaker, isn't it?"

"No, that's where sound comes out of."

"Well, then don't call it the speaker!" Saturday snapped.

The saleswoman shook her head. "Are you serious? What, were you born yesterday?"

Saturday frowned. "Can I pay and get out of here?"

* * *

She walked out of the store holding the phone and feeling very modern indeed. She had a phone! For some reason, it made her feel all fluttery inside. Then she realized what it was.

She felt more like a mortal, like she had less ties to the old House that was gone but for she and the other Days. She wasn't sure if she liked the feeling.

Just was she was exiting, a boy who looked very familiar was bouncing along, pulling his dad's sleeve. "My own phone! I'm so excited!"

"Just a minute, Arthur, all right?"

The boy nodded, and grinned.

Saturday rubbed her eyes. The Pretender? But wasn't he the New Architect, that Art character? Had he split himself like the previous Architect?

Arthur suddenly stopped. "Hey, Dad. Go on. I realized I forgot my gift card in the car."

"Well, run along and get it."

Arthur dashed past Saturday, but instead of going into the parking lot, turned around and strode right back to her. "I know you!" he said.

_Crap, _thought Saturday.

"What do you think you're doing in my town?" Arthur demanded. "No, what are you doing on my world? What are you doing ALIVE?"

**A/ N: Yeah, a bit of a sudden ending, I know. The plot will pick up reasonably quickly now that Arthur's aware of the Days.**


	5. Grievances and Sneaking Out

**A/N: Here's the next one, a bit slow, perhaps. I'm working on picking up the pace!**

**Please review if you like it; I always make an effort to personally thank reviewers and appreciate prompts, suggestions, etc. I always appreciate suggestions, and love it when people tell me they like my stories.**

* * *

**Grievances and Sneaking Out (With Bonus Arthur!)**

Saturday did the first thing that came to mind: she ran. Usually, she would face her foe like the scum he was, but for some strange reason, it was not even remotely appealing. Probably because the last time she'd done so, she ended up taking a knife to the gut. She didn't get more than three feet, however, before she came crashing to the ground. She couldn't believe she'd tripped on the brat's feet. Surely she was better than that.

Saturday's eyes widened and she rolled to the right, narrowly missing Arthur's punch. Now the squirt wanted to fight her? How stupid was he?

Arthur drew his hand back, and Saturday leapt to her feet in a well-practiced, fluid motion. He stepped back as she glared at him, still taller and her poise warning him that despite writing records for millennia, she was not an inexperienced combatant. She held her umbrella loosely in her hand, but it could easily become a weapon, sorcery aside. "I do not wish to confront you in the parking lot of this mortal store," Saturday said, grip on the umbrella tightening.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded.

Saturday raised an eyebrow and held up the bag that held her purchase with her other hand. "I was buying a cell phone."

"Besides that!"

"If you have an issue, bring it up with the New Architect. I don't want me to be here any more than you do."

"Why do I have trouble believing you?" he spat.

Saturday shrugged. "Believe what you want."

"And why isn't your presence inimical?"

"Ask the Ne-"

"I WANT ANSWERS FROM _YOU_!" Arthur screamed.

"You're not in a position to ask for them," Saturday sniffed.

"You better start talking, or I'll call the cops," Arthur warned. "I'll tell them you attacked me."

"Is this the sweet little boy who tried to save the others? I heard you healed Monday, kept Tuesday alive, tried to aide Wednesday… mm-hmm. Thanks for all your help when the Piper came at me!"

"I… he was… too fast," Arthur said, his gaze dropping to stare at either his feet or the ground.

"Do you really think I would have disobeyed the Architect without a good reason? I was always loyal to Her, Arthur. She was one of my best friends. I was created to be Her friend, Her companion- or so I thought. I was even willing to throw my life away for Her, Arthur. That's how devoted I was."

"So what changed?" the boy mumbled.

"It wasn't just my life I was worried about. I would throw away my life, but not that of countless Denizens. As startling as it may be, I did care about my Denizens to a degree."

"Art would've recreated them," Arthur said, "like the others he brought back."

"Oh? And tell me about the others!" she retorted. "Besides us Morrow Days, how many did Art oh-so-kindly bring back? Not Piper's Children- just Denizens."

Arthur held up three fingers, thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe more. Maybe none."

"I thought so. Out of the millions… Arthur, you are the murderer. You are the one who killed infinite Denizens. Compare that to our actions. Tell me who the monster is. Tell me who the traitor is." She was being harsh, unnecessarily so, but she didn't care. This boy deserved it. He may have been a puppet, but still… every word was true.

"Arthur!" called Bob. "What's taking you so long? Did you get that gift card?"

Arthur nodded, a hint of tears glistening in his eyes as he walked to his father. It occurred to Saturday that she had really driven the message home- that, or the boy already knew what she was saying, but was simply denying it to himself as much as he could, her words bringing out the reality.

Bob took one look at him, at his expression, and strode to Saturday. "What did you-"

"Dad," Arthur interrupted weakly. "I tripped. She had nothing to do with it. She… she helped me up."

"Is that so?" Bob's eyes narrowed, as if sending her a message. _Who are you, and why would my son defend you?_

And Saturday sent a message back. _It's not for you to know, and he is not your son. You know it._

All she said, however, was, "Yes. He doesn't seem too hurt, though. Probably only has a couple of bruises."

"Well, sorry, then." Bob turned, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder as they walked into Best Buy. Saturday watched them, and the familiar envy rose up again. Who would come to her defense if someone made her cry? Who would put their hand on her shoulder and lead her to comfort?

Saturday scowled. She didn't cry anymore anyway. Those days were gone.

* * *

Wednesday didn't talk to her when Saturday got back. In fact, she was engaging in the age-old 'Pretending You Don't Exist' tactic, hastily diverting her attention to the cake batter once she realized who had just entered.

"I'm home," Saturday said. None of the others paid attention to her either.

That hurt, for some reason.

At dinner (a rare treat), Thursday announced his plans. "With the new apartment rates, Saturday's lone job won't be enough to pay for everything. That's why I'm going to join the military."

"And I'm going back to Friday's Hospital," Friday sighed. "I put a down payment in for a DVR, and I'm recording my shows. NOBODY messes with it, understood?"

"Great." Saturday poked at her meatloaf without any enthusiasm, the cold steel of the fork feeling strange in her grasp.

"Is something wrong?" Sunday asked.

Saturday glanced up at him, then back at her meatloaf, pretending she hadn't snuck in the peek. His face was as blank and arrogant as ever, and yet… he had noticed. He had actually noticed.

Wow, she was overly-sensitive today.

"I ran into Arthur at the store," Saturday sighed, dropping the fork and leaning back.

Wednesday frowned but didn't say anything, still employing the 'Pretending You Don't Exist' but not doing a very good job of it.

"And?" Monday said, peering at her with intensity in his eyes that usually swallowed up by a sleepy, worn expression.

"And I told him the truth," Saturday answered. "But seeing him with his father, so vulnerable and trusting… it reminded me… it reminded me…" She stopped. What _did _it remind her of?

"What, are you jealous of the concept of family?" Sunday asked.

Saturday blinked. Since when was he so perceptive of her feelings? Of _anyone's, _for that matter? She half-wished he'd suddenly start spouting how great he was, just to give the weird day the slightest hint of normalcy.

Now, this would be the point where an ultra-cheesy interaction would occur. Someone would say, '_We're _your family!', and Wednesday and Saturday would somehow inexplicably forget their argument on the dime, and then they'd share a group hug with the others, happily-ever-after-lah-di-dah.

But that's not what happened.

Saturday found herself saying, "I don't need a family. I never have. I'm a Denizen, after all." The others nodded in agreement, though Wednesday bit her lip.

Then it struck Saturday what mortals dated for- family. And Wednesday was seeing Mr. Ronne. The others didn't know. Surely, if she said something now, they'd take her side and force Wednesday out of this foolishness. It was for her own good. After all, it had been so easy before…

_Saturday was standing at the Council, and a triumphant smile crossed Wednesday's face. Yes! Now the two of them would free the Will, and she would finally, finally be free of this maddening, savage hunger. Saturday would back her up, make them see reason,, force them out of this foolishness…_

_ "Morrow Days… I know we have said we shall no longer discuss the issue, but as to the fulfillment of the Will…" Saturday looked to Wednesday, who flashed an encouraging grin. Saturday grinned back, but there was something about it…_

She's nervous, _dismissed Wednesday. She could tell, saw the signs in her friend- the way Saturday was gazing slightly above her audience's heads, the slight angle of her left foot… after so long, Wednesday could easily tell when she was nervous. _She has every right to be. Who wouldn't be nervous?

_"About the fulfillment of the Will…" Saturday resumed. "I need to say this, and this alone: there is a traitor among us."_

_ Wednesday's smile vanished._

_ Wednesday wasn't exactly sure what happened next, everything seeming to occur in flashes. Saturday raising her arm, pointing at her. Wednesday running, something hitting her back. Cries of pain. Then, somehow, Dawn had her Key, and she was sinking. Falling into the Sea, blue water all around her as she slowly sank, as if in molasses, dimly aware of someone screaming she'd drowned. Exhaling all her air out in a lamentable sigh that stank of betrayal as she began to change…_

Saturday shook her head. It had been so easy, before, to lie to the one person who, other than the Architect, was her best friend in the Universe. It hadn't been difficult at all, to raise her hopes and bring them crashing down.

"Wednesday has been seeing-"

Wednesday looked up, startled.

"-real improvement," Saturday said, nearly tripping on her words as she changed them at the last second. "This is a really good meal. The taste is much better, and your food intake has decreased significantly…"

Wednesday blushed. "Yeah, it has."

"In fact," Sunday joked, "your current intake is so small, you might want to increase it, sweetie!"

Everyone laughed, and Wednesday flushed a deep red.

Saturday sighed, ignored again, and covered her face with her hands. Why had what was so easy… become so hard?

* * *

"Friday's hogging the TV, and Saturday and Wednesday are still failing at that 'I'm Not Acknowledging Your Existence' thing," Monday complained. "I can't stand them!"

"What do you expect?" Thursday replied. "They haven't gotten along since that one Council…"

"Yeah, they both became animals!" Tuesday laughed. "Wednesday got turned into a whale, and Saturday started acting like a-"

"Watch it," Monday warned.

"But he's right," Sunday acknowledged, pouring himself a glass of water. "Honestly, we guys need some time to unwind, away from all this drama. It's either an argument, or all 'Sunday, help me pay the bills, you worthless good-for-nothing mooch! Urgh! What did I do to deserve this?' or 'Why is my soufflé flat? This strudel doesn't taste good! I WANT FOOD!'" He made his voice high and whiny when he imitated the two. "And Friday's lost it, for sure. 'Ellen, Oprah, the Bachelor, Elvis Presley! Why can't I see myself in the mirror? Am I a vampire? I'm having a midlife crisis!'"

The men laughed. "What's stopping us?" Monday asked.

"What're you suggesting?" Tuesday said.

"Let's sneak out."

"Brilliant!" Thursday exclaimed.

"Monday, you are a genius," Sunday professed.

"Really?"

"Eh, no. But good idea."

"But where are we supposed to sneak out to?" Thursday said. "Where are we going?"

"We can worry about _that," _Monday answered, "_after_ we break out!"

* * *

It was quite easy to sneak past Wednesday. She was extracting something from the oven, and all of her attention was diverted to it- it was a careful dance of the fingers, to get the pastry out without burning herself, and Wednesday had not quite mastered it yet.

"It's flat again!" she cried, but by then, they were past her and into the living room.

This was Friday's usual haunt, but it was deserted now. Sunday pressed his ear against the door to her room, and heard quiet sniffling. Was she… crying?

"I want to understand," he heard her say. "What do these mortals have that I don't? Oprah and Ellen and all the others only confuse me more!"

Drawing away, Sunday shrugged, and they continued on.

It was much harder to get past Saturday.

Always complaining she had nothing to do, she had taken up writing memoirs of some sort to occupy the time, usually spicing them up with less-than-flattering remarks about the others. She also enjoyed skulking in front of the door, presumably because she still felt the need to control 'civilian traffic'- after all, she must have missed the power that came with the ability to control the elevators of the House.

She had, however, fallen asleep.

Unfortunately, right in front of the door, in a position that would have made it quite difficult to open it without waking her up.

Thursday squinted. "Maybe we can move her," he whispered.

"Nose goes!" Monday whispered harshly.

"Nose goes!" Tuesday and Thursday repeated.

Sunday scowled, carefully scooped the sleeping Day into his arms, and started carrying her back to her room. Either she wasn't aware of it or she was very good at maintaining the pretense of sleep. After this careful relocation, Sunday rejoined the others, and out they went.

* * *

Arthur woke with a start.

The day's events had been weird indeed. Superior Saturday alive, and at Best Buy, no less! And who knew if the others had been resurrected? For once, Arthur was sorely tempted to use the phone Art had given him, his sole remaining connection with the House…

Arthur peeled his blankets off and crawled out of bed, feeling his way to his cabinet in the darkness. He had just found the velvet box that held his phone when he heard a clatter from outside. A very _loud _clatter.

Arthur dashed to the window, nearly tripping on something unseen. It was nearly pitch-black outside, but he could make out four silhouettes climbing down the fire escape of the new apartment complex down the street, their forms given away by the flashlight one held and the old-fashioned lantern in the hands of another.

Arthur blinked. He couldn't tell from the distance, but it looked a lot like a _strom_ lantern.

Once the four reached the dim glow of a street lamp, Arthur groaned. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday? Living down the street?

Making a hasty decision, Arthur pulled on his bathrobe and slippers. It was time for a little chat.

* * *

**Coming in ch. 6: Girl Scouts deliver their cookies, doors are not Denizen-proof, Arthur confronts the Morrow Days once more, and Friday discovers the reason jobs and careers are called 'work.'**

**As for this chapter, though...**

**Two sudden endings in a row? Both starring Arthur? Unforgivable, I know. Ch. 6 coming soon. If you have any prompts or ideas on what the Morrow Days should do, please let me know!**


	6. Busted

**Busted**

Saturday was the first to realize Lord Sunday and the others had high-tailed it.

She awoke in her bed, fragments of a strange dream replaying themselves in her mind. She'd fallen asleep at the door. Then the Piper had carried her, but then the Piper's face merged into Lord Sunday's, and he gently lay her down.

Her mood soured when she realized that at least part of it had actually happened. She _had _fallen asleep at the door. That meant Lord Sunday had to have carried her. The Piper was dead, last she knew. Though so was she.

_What would I do if he's alive again? _she asked herself. _Besides that, though... Sunday carried me. He had no right._

She slipped out of bed, barely glancing at the clock proclaiming the late hour, and crept into the living room. Friday was sprawled on the sofa, the TV off for once, and holding a thick book. "What're you doing?" Saturday asked.

"Studying," Friday sighed. "I have a job interview soon." She held up the cover of the book, _Textbook of Basic Doctoring. _"I know most of it, but a refresher is needed, of course, if I'm going to work at a hospital."

"Oh. Have you seen Sunday?"

"No..." Friday shut the textbook. "Now that I think about it, it's awfully quiet in here." She stood. "This is worth investigating, I think."

Together, they peered into each of the bedrooms, not really surprised to see they were all empty. "They must be in the kitchen," Friday declared.

"Nonsense. They're not home. They've left," Saturday snorted. "No one spends time in the kitchen but Wednesday."

"Well, let's check anyway," Friday suggested.

Saturday shrugged. "Whatever."

Sure enough, only Wednesday was there, trying to fix the flatness of her souffles while simultaneously baking a batch of muffin tops.

"Just muffin tops?" Friday raised an eyebrow.

"They're better that way," Wednesday replied, avoiding looking at Saturday. "I thought you would know, what with you watching TV all the time to observe mortals and whatnot. I saw it on _Seinfeld."_

_"Lovely," _Friday muttered. "But if you'd bothered to watch the whole episode, you would know you have to bake the whole muffin and then discard the bottoms."

"Says who?" Wednesday asked.

"Elaine."

"Who?" said Saturday and Wednesday at the same time.

* * *

"You too?" Arthur complained.

Sunday turned. "Oh, drat. It's him."

"Should we run for it?" Thursday asked.

"No," Monday sighed. "Running is far too much effort."

"I thought I healed you," Arthur said.

"It seems my resurrection was a bit awry," Monday replied. "Bother."

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded.

"Sneaking out because we can't stand the women at our place much longer," Tuesday shrugged.

"On my world, I mean," Arthur clarified.

"Living. If you have an issue, bring it up with Art," Sunday retorted.

"I DO have an issue," Arthur declared. "You shouldn't be here!"

"Tell me about it," Thursday sniffed. "Can we go now? We want to see downtown at night."

"It's boring," Arthur said. "If you really want to nighttime sight-see, you should head on down to the river and- hey, wait! Why am I telling you this like you're some sort of tourists?"

"Aren't we?" Monday asked.

"No!" Arthur said. "And you live down the street from me!"

"Really?" Sunday sounded genuinely surprised. "No idea. Well, I suppose we'll have to drop on in sometime."

Arthur's eyes widened at the idea of the Morrow Days "dropping in" for a quick visit. That would be havoc for sure.

"How is your schooling, Arthur?" Monday cut in.

Arthur blinked. "What?"

"Your schooling. I found you in a place of learning several months past, when you received my Key- or half of it, anyway. Do you still go there?"

"It got destroyed by the nuclear raid," Arthur said tartly.

"Blame Saturday," Thursday shrugged.

"So now I do home school. My friends Leaf and Ed do too, but they tell me they have friends going out of the city for school, just until they rebuild the place," Arthur continued.

"Fascinating." Sunday rolled his eyes.

"You asked!"

"No, Monday did. Come on, we really must be going. They could realize we're gone any minute now," Sunday said.

"You can't just walk around!" Arthur protested.

"Try and stop us," Tuesday replied. "What can you do about it?"

Arthur said nothing, feeling a strange warmth across his face. He was getting angry, he knew. "You shouldn't-"

His words were drowned out by an explosion.

* * *

When Arthur opened his eyes, he was in his living room. _What? _

His father was vigorously shaking Sunday's hand. "Thank you so much for bringing him back, I have no idea whatsoever what he was doing outside. He's been acting a bit oddly ever since his mother- um, anyway..."

"No problem. I'm sure your boy will be fine."

"We are quite lucky to have neighbors like you down the street," Bob said.

"You're too kind," Sunday said. Noticing Arthur awake, he turned and spoke to the boy. "Arthur is welcome to visit at any time."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to impose," Arthur mumbled.

"Nonsense! And if you ever need any help with schoolwork, why, I'm sure Sat- Susan would be most pleased to aide you," Sunday said. His tone and demeanor was exactly like that of a kind-hearted neighbor trying to help another out. If Arthur didn't know better, he would have been totally fooled.

"We have been considering getting a tutor for his math," Bob laughed. "Arthur's getting up into the higher courses- Geometry, you understand. He's good at it when he puts his mind to it, but he does have some trouble with certain theorems, and it's been at least twenty years since I've done Geometry myself."

"Oh, Susan is wonderful at math," Tuesday said, "and she loves children."

"Since when?" Thursday asked, then added, "Ouch!" as Monday sharply elbowed him.

"Well, then, Arthur, why don't you see Susan tomorrow?" Bob asked.

Arthur frowned. "No."

"Come on, Arthur. Why not?"

"No. I'm not going to a stranger's house."

"Susan could come here," Sunday offered.

"No," Arthur repeated. "I'm doing fine in math."

"Your grades are fine, Arthur, but I would like it if you could understand it better," Bob said.

"Michaeli could help me."

"Michaeli is doing her clinic hours during the day. You know that," Bob admonished. Arthur's sister, Michaeli, was in her final stage of nursing school and was completing the required clinic hours for graduation. After that, Michaeli planned to get a part-time job as a nurse while pursuing doctorate studies. She was very busy and often very cranky.

"I don't care. I don't want to," Arthur pouted. He was acting like a three-year-old. He couldn't stand the bad tempers and moods he'd been in since Emily was killed, but he couldn't help it. Luckily, Bob took his refusal as a side-effect of this, rather than hesitation to be anywhere near the resurrected Morrow Days.

"Could you at least try it for one day?" Bob pleaded. Arthur heard the tone of exasperation in his voice.

"Fine," Arthur relented. It was only one day, and it was only to make Bob happy. "But she's coming here."

"Of course," Sunday agreed, and flashed a pearly smile. Arthur wasn't fooled. What motive would he have for offering a tutor? And what was the explosion that had so conveniently landed Sunday in his house?

* * *

"They left?" Wednesday asked incredulously.

"Your fault, I bet," Friday said. "It's a bit hard to be around you two while you're arguing."

"There's no argument," Saturday said. "There is simply a disagreement of the best interests of the involved parties."

"I didn't finish law school, so please explain," Friday said. "In a language I understand, preferably."

"Saturday thinks she knows what's best for me, and I say she doesn't," Wednesday said.

"Of course I know what's best for you," Saturday said. "I-"

There was a loud rumbling outside.

"I bet that was the boys," Friday stated.

"They'll be back soon, you think?" Wednesday asked.

"No," Saturday replied. "As long as they're out, they'll try and keep it that way. Well, I hope they didn't take a key." And she marched over to the door and locked it. "Serves them right."

* * *

"What was that explosion?" Monday asked.

The four Days were seated at an outside table belonging to a downtown late-night restaurant. The flow of people around them and the constant screech, hum, and whir of traffic was a strangely comfortable backdrop as they sipped at their glasses of soda.

"More like as not, some sort of Nithling," Sunday answered, then took a long draw of his Coke with his straw.

"Nithlings still exist?" Thursday said.

"My guess is that since Nothing still does, Nithlings may still be formed," Tuesday said. He was a bit of an expert on Nothing, having shaped it for almost all eternity.

"Is it possible the New Architect saw that coming and sent us here to save Arthur?" Sunday inquired. He had briefly seen the creature that had caused the explosion, a three-headed beast with fire pouring out of its eyes. It had definitely lunged at Arthur.

"Perhaps," Thursday growled. "Sunday, you are wounded."

Sunday glanced down at his ripped sleeve. "No, I am not. I am sure a single scratch would have returned me to Nothing. But I do have a ripped shirt. I'll have to ask Wednesday or Friday to stitch it for me."

"They won't," Monday said, very matter-of-fact. "Though maybe Wednesday might. She's nicer."

"I still think the New Architect resurrected us for a reason," Sunday said, "and I don't believe it's this incident. This is certainly part of it, though."

"Oh, please," Tuesday groaned. "Drink your soda. It's Guys Night Out. We'll worry about this later."

* * *

After several hours of walking along the river admiring the boats, testing out all the bars in town and deeming them absolutely unworthy of their presence, and finally deciding to return back to the apartment, a weary Sunday turned the knob to the apartment.

It rattled defiantly.

"They locked us out!" he seethed. "The nerve!"

"But you've brought a key, right?" Thursday said.

Sunday's response was to kick the door.

"You didn't bring a key?!" exclaimed Tuesday. "Seriously?"

"Move," Thursday commanded.

Sunday moved.

"I'll open this door," Thursday said. "I'll break the lock, but I'm sure Tuesday could fix that in a jiffy." He twisted the doorknob and tried to open the door, to no avail. Red in the face, he tried again.

The entire door popped off the hinges.

"Great going, genius," Monday said. "I'm going to bed." He hopped into the apartment and into his bedroom, leaving behind the other three.

"I didn't know doors were not Denizen-proof," Thursday growled.

* * *

Friday groaned. Job interviews were so... boring. She'd experienced them before, of course, from mortals' memories, but they had always seemed more interesting then. The mortals had been nervous, or afraid. Fear was a wonderful emotion, Friday thought. It was so delectably flavorful in the right doses. But she didn't feel any now. She was simply tired (because of studying all night), bored (because nothing was happening, all she was doing was answering some questions), and robbed (because she hadn't been expecting this when she'd gone job-hunting).

"So, how much practice have you had?" the woman said.

"I used to own a place called Friday's Hospital," Friday said stoutly. "It's several miles out of this city, on the opposite end of East Area. It was destroyed in the raid. I've worked there for about... er, thirty years?"

"You don't look like you've worked anywhere that long," the interviewer said.

Friday gulped. Oh, right. Humans had to take ridiculous amounts of schooling to become doctors, and working thirty years... by human standards, that would have made her quite aged.

"Thirteen," she amended. "I meant thirteen."

"That's reasonable," the interviewer replied. "And you are a surgeon?"

"I'm an anything. I could work wherever you put me."

"But what's your specialization?"

"Er, I don't know what you mean."

"I see."

There were several more questions, all of which Friday felt she was either unable to answer or didn't answer thoroughly enough.

"Well, thank you for your time," the interviewer said.

Friday had a sinking feeling she hadn't gotten the job. In fact, she wasn't sure she wanted it. Jobs were no doubt quite menial. After all, why else were they called "work" and not "enjoying the collection of more experiences and memories"?

* * *

No one spoke of the boys' leaving the apartment. No one spoke of Saturday locking them out.

Though they did have to make an excuse to Mr. Ronne about why it was broken. It was an incredibly lame excuse, but since he spent most of the time staring at Wednesday and nodding at everything she said, they weren't too stressed about it. Mr. Ronne even offered to pay for a replacement himself, as part of his "accident forgiveness" clause.

Saturday snorted at this, because there was no accident forgiveness clause, and she knew what he was really trying to do- impress Wednesday.

Unfortunately, it was working.

This put her in a bad mood all day, and when the doorbell rang, Saturday was not at all prepared for visitors. She pulled across the curtain she'd put there to temporarily replace the broken door and growled, "What?"

"We're delivering these cookies," the girls dressed all alike said. Saturday squinted. They looked familiar. They must have been the ones yelling about scary green-haired men.

"Oh." Saturday took the boxes and barely glanced at them before throwing them at Sunday, who was, yet again, trimming his bonsai plant. He must have spent _hours _on that thing. The boxes hit him on the back of his head, and he turned.

"What?"

"Just your cookies," Saturday smiled sweetly.

"I bet he bought them for you, miss," one of the girls said.

"What makes you think that?" Saturday asked, turning to face them again.

"When he handed us the money, he said something like, 'I hope she'll like them.'"

Sunday reddened. He remembered no such thing, but his memory did lapse often when he switched to his mortal side...

"You have a good husband!" they chorused, and then scampered off.

Saturday turned. "They think we're married?"

"I see it," Friday said.

"I don't," Saturday retorted.

"Really?" Sunday asked. If Saturday didn't know better, she would have thought he sounded slightly disappointed.


	7. Mirages of Memory

Mirages of Memory

_Saturday found Her watching the Upper House from the viewing balcony. "A nice view, isn't it, Saturday?"_

_ "Yes, it is. I often come here and watch the workers below. They look like ants." She laughed as she came up behind the Architect and sidled next to her, smiling. Quite some time passed since it'd been just the two of them and the whole of creation at its infant stages, but Saturday didn't mind. They were still together, and that was all that mattered._

_ "I think that's something you'll struggle with all your life," the Architect sighed._

_ "What?"_

_ "This view."_

_ "What are you talking about? It's beautiful." Saturday pointed at the tower, several stories high, below. "That's a small tower, isn't it?"_

_"I'm sure it'll get bigger," the Architect replied, and sighed. "They always do."_

_ "What are you talking about?" Usually the Architect confused everyone but Saturday. Saturday knew Her better than everyone, and that was why she understood Her better than everyone. Except for today. Today, the Architect made no sense, not even to Her best friend in all of creation._

_ "Envy. It always gets bigger. It's going to eat away inside of you, Saturday, and I already see it starting."_

_ "Envy? Who would I be jealous of?" Saturday laughed again. "Being here, in the Gardens with you… and even your little son. I'd like nothing better."_

_ The Architect smiled. "Exactly, my dear. You'd like nothing better."_

* * *

Saturday awoke angry. That stupid Architect had probably planned for all of this- the Trustees to fall away, everything! Before that talk, Saturday didn't even understand the concept of 'envy.' That wasn't the only emotion she learned. It wasn't long until she understood the meaning of 'betrayal' as well.

* * *

_ She saw the Architect again, the second she'll fallen back asleep. "So you finally face me after ten thousand years," Saturday accused._

_ "I saved your life, dear. Who do you think fixated your soul?"_

_ "No, you doomed it! Why was I not good enough for you? What has Sunday ever done better? I am your first creation, your shining jewel, your best friend, your constant companion… and apparently just a pawn to be tossed aside. Just as your Heir was. Just as your precious _son _was. You made it clear in your Will."_

_ "Why were you not good enough for me? You are boring, to be honest. You are uncreative, unoriginal, obsessed with rules and regulations, striving for a perfection you cannot hope to achieve, jealous more than I thought possible for a single being, and deeply, deeply tiresome. Why would I give you my finest land? You are a 'superior life form,' as you say, but you cannot compare to the mortals in any of their aspects. You, Saturday, are-"_

_ "I'm what you made me!" Saturday interrupted, hands over her ears. _I don't want to hear anymore. Make it stop! _"I was everything you thought would be perfect. I'm sorry if it wasn't enough for you. _Nothing _ever is. But you made me this way! You forced me to this! You sowed the seeds of envy before you even created the Old One. You planned my falling from the start. I'm exactly as you made me. Sorry I'm not what your precious, deviant mortals have become."_

_ "Yes," the Architect smiled, "you are. You are exactly what I have made you, exactly as I _wanted_ you… my friend."_

_ Emotions the Architect claimed she didn't have rose within Saturday as she heard that word. Friend. She'd believed herself to be the Architect's friend, and had been proud of it. She'd been made for that purpose. Or so she thought. Apparently, she was just a boring toy. She'd show the Architect. She had emotions!_

_Bloodlust, betrayal, frustration, and overwhelming anger washed over her in great waves, an oncoming tsunami. With a snarl, she leapt for the Architect, hands outstretched for her throat, but felt herself fall into darkness, into Nothing. It wrapped around her wrists and legs, pouring into her mouth and nose like deadly water. _

_ "You are always falling, and you will never stop. My Will made sure of that. I have kept you alive so that you can always fall… my friend."_

_ And she felt the Nothing start to destroy her, just as it did when the Piper had stabbed her. The pain was unbearable, and she was certain it hadn't hurt as much the first time. It attacked her throat, making it burn, and destroyed her eardrums. The Architect was still talking, but Saturday heard only a loud, obnoxious ringing. Her sight disappeared. Agony afflicted her limbs, and then she felt them no more; they were gone. Her heart beat a million times too fast, and then it too stopped. For a moment, a dreadful moment, she was still conscious, though she knew her body had died. Then that too faded, all but the terrible, terrible ringing…_

* * *

Saturday jerked awake. It took her a moment to realize that the ringing was in real life, and it was her phone.

"Hello?" she asked wearily, running a hand through her hair.

"Sorry to bother you," she heard the person on the other line say, "but this is the number Wendy gave me, so-"

Saturday hung up.

Yelling at Wednesday could wait until morning. Which was... when? She glanced at the clock. Seven o'clock in the morning. Might as well try for a little more sleep before she had to go to work. After all, she couldn't quite say that what she'd had was restful.

* * *

_He slammed her against the wall. "Smile, sweetie," he whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "Don't you remember me, your dear lover?"_

_ She turned away, not wanting to look at him, but he grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. The mask was white and plain, a more humble adornment than his previous cover, and it cast deep shadows over his eyes, so they appeared like black pits. The mask's expression was that of a frown, a twisted scowl of malice. He grabbed her shoulders, squeezing so that it hurt, as the wall melted and the scene transformed to a sea of Nothing. _

_ "Stupid Denizen. You don't even know what love is. Enjoy your fall," he said, leaning in close to her, so close it made her shiver. He gently pushed her, letting go, and she toppled over backwards into the void, screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming._

_ "Smile!" he called, his voice joined with the Architect's. _

_ Her fall must have been quick, but to her, it felt as if she was swimming through molasses. She wind milled her arms, trying to bring the motion to a stop, but it was in vain. There was no way. She would die a third time. Third? When was the second? In a dream. _This is a dream. Wake up, wake up, wake up! _Her thoughts pleaded, though to whom she wasn't sure. The Architect? The New Architect? Herself? _

_"Do you understand yet?" the Architect's voice asked._

_ She tried to talk, to tell the phantom that it was just a dream, and that she wasn't scared, but the second she opened her mouth, Nothing poured in, and she choked. She closed her mouth and swallowed, wincing at the fiery pain. _It's just a dream. It's just a dream. It's just a dream._ And then she found voice, just for a second, but instead of protesting at the ghost that haunted her, confronting the thing that ruined her, she pleaded, "Help me."_

_ "Smile, first."_

_ Then Sunday was there, holding her in a foreign embrace. "I have you. It's okay."_

_ Strange emotions kindled within her, the least of which was confusion. He hated her. She hated him. Anger rose up. He had no right to hold her that way. He, after all, had decided he hadn't wanted her, so long ago. She'd told him her secret, and what he done? Laughed! "You are Denizen. You don't know what you're talking about."_

_ What strange things was her mind concocting now? _

_ He drew her closer, whispering softly. "You're safe. You're fine. I have you." Despite herself, she closed her eyes, the anger starting to be smothered under feelings she couldn't place. She choked back a sob, and Sunday stroked her hair gently. Saturday bit her lip, shaking a little and relaxing for a fraction of a second, then cried out as something struck her in the back. She coughed, blood falling into the blackness of the Nothing, and she felt the hilt of a blade stick out of her back. _

I should have known, _flashed through her head. _What else would be more fitting for a backstabber like me?

_ "You didn't smile," Sunday hissed as she died for the third time._

* * *

**Okay, the whole thing was Saturday's messed-up dreams hinting at a past less pristine than she'd like to admit. And most of it is in italics. Sorry! Next chapter is about the waking world- I promise.**

**If you like the story, please review! I'd love to know what you're thinking.**


	8. Confrontation- Mortal Inventions

Confrontation- Mortal Inventions

"May I speak to you in private?"

Sunday looked up and wiped his forehead to stop a trickle of sweat from rolling into his eyebrow. The weather was clearer, so he had taken the opportunity to work on part of the tenement's garden. His hands were covered in dirt, so the motion simply smeared a swathe of it across his forehead.

Saturday gave a little sigh. "Well, may I?"

"Sure." He picked up his trowel, stood, and brushed some soil off his pants. Saturday was standing on the little brick lane winding through the tenement's gardens, no doubt conscious of filth on her crisp dress shoes- she was still in her work clothes, so she must've been on her way home. He noticed she was holding a closed umbrella, though there was no cloud blemishing the stark blue sky.

"Why're you carrying that umbrella around? It's not going to rain, and you know you're not allowed to use sorcery outside the apartment," Sunday said.

"Habit," she mumbled as they walked abreast down the lane and into the apartment building. They didn't say another word to each other as they climbed the stairs, though Sunday kept stealing glances to try and decipher Saturday's incomprehensible expression.

They pulled aside the temporary curtain-door and took in the scene, Saturday with slight dismay and Sunday with slight amusement. For as they saw Friday lounging around in the living room and heard the noises coming from all corners of the apartment, it occurred to both of them that there was no place they could really speak in private.

"Well," Sunday said. "I suppose we could try our rooms."

Saturday glared at him, informing him she would never step foot in there willingly if her life depended on it. "Mine is too close to Wednesday, Friday, and Thursday's," was all she said, however.

"We could go back outside."

Saturday frowned. "Back down twenty flights of stairs?"

"Well…" He had a crazy idea, but he didn't think Saturday would approve. "… we could use the bathroom. Think about it- no one uses it except Friday and Thursday, and they're not in it right now."

She bit her lip, tapping her left index finger against her right wrist, a pose he recognized she often did while thinking. After a moment, she sighed and nodded. "Fine."

Friday eyed them as they opened the door to the bathroom. "What're you doing?"

"Having a quick little _private_ chat," Saturday answered, making sure to stress 'private.' Friday shrugged, and Saturday shut the door, promptly locking it and turning to face Lord Sunday.

"So, what is it?" he asked.

"Several things, actually. The first is that I'm not pleased to be Arthur's tutor. Explain."

"He was attacked by a Nithling of some kind. I need someone competent to keep an eye on him in case something happens."

"So what if something does?" she retorted. "What do I care?"

"I just don't want to give the New Architect a reason to zap us all with divine lightning," Sunday shrugged.

"Well, I'm not going to take this lying down. If I have to be miserable, so will you."

"Then nothing's really changed," he said.

Saturday rolled her eyes. "Spare me. Anyway, point two is that you left last night."

"So?" If she was going to talk about him carrying her, he'd dash past her and bust out, knocking down the door if he had to. Let Mr. Ronne forgive them for that one too! It'd be easy to get past her, if he did it right.

"I- er, that is… um…"

Sunday blinked. She looked so vulnerable when she was flustered…

_No, mortal side! Not now, not now, not now! _To his intense relief, it died down. "Out with it!" he snapped.

The fluster was replaced by the oh-so-familiar anger. That was good. Sunday knew how to deal with anger.

"You were trespassing beyond your bounds to relocate my physical presence in such an intimate and condescending way," she hissed.

"What? Speak normally, idiot!"

"Why'd you carry me?!"

Sunday immediately lunged for the door, hand outstretched to desperately latch onto the knob, but Saturday grabbed his tie. His eyes boggled, and he spluttered, the wind gone out of him, and she slammed him against the wall, into the classic threatening position. "Answer the question, darn it!"

Sunday didn't respond. His face felt hot, and there was a roaring in his ears. It wasn't just embarrassment that she'd so easily stopped him, either. _Crap! No, not now, not now, not now!_

Saturday glared at him, let go, and stalked several steps away. She muttered something under her breath, not looking at him. "Actually, I also have a confession to make," she whispered, "and it's only proper I tell you."

Sunday shifted his weight nervously. The last time she'd said that, he'd accidentally said the wrong things, and possibly reduced her to tears. He had no idea how to react this time, but Saturday kept talking, not even giving him the chance. "I've been having nightmares. About your brother, and your mother."

"Nightmares?" He slowly stepped away from the wall.

"Yes." She smiled, her grin a bit worn, her eyes betraying the lack of mirth. "Stupid, isn't it? Being upset over dreams… that'd be something a mortal would do."

"Mortals do quite a few things that aren't really that bad."

"Yes, they have many ridiculous inventions," she said. "I forget, you're half. I suppose you're more acquainted with mortals, despite me watching them since the birth of time."

The war inside his head was still waging, but now there was another side coming out as victor, and he didn't like it. Heart thumping, he took her hand. Saturday jerked a little, startled, and then relaxed, a foreign gleam in her eyes. He couldn't tell whether she was afraid, pleased, both, or getting ready to slap him- knowing her, though, it was most likely the last, but he drew closer anyway. "I do know a bit. Why, do you want to learn?"

"Would you be willing to teach me?" she replied.

The space between them began to disappear. Sunday didn't know how, but now Saturday was in his arms, and they were just about to kiss.

Something banged on the door.

Surprised, the Denizen side swooped in, and Sunday dropped her, automatically disgusted with himself. He smiled sarcastically at her, and unlocked the door. Friday burst in, none too pleased. "You're certainly having a very long private chat," she reprimanded, then caught sight of Saturday on the floor. The poor Day looked _beyond_ flustered now, breathing heavily, red in the face, and shaking a bit. "Oi! Sunday!"

"What, Friday?"

"You know, choking people's not very nice, but if you _have_ to strangle her (I mean, I totally understand the impulse, no one would blame you), do it somewhere else," Friday hissed. "I guess some people forgot today was Bath Day, and I'm getting impatient!"

Saturday scrambled to her feet. Whatever brief insanity had possessed her was gone now, and her eyes widened as she no doubt realized what she had been about to do.

Friday eyed them strangely, then pointed to the living room. "Out, please."

Saturday nodded and broke into a shambling sprint without looking at Sunday, and he felt a pang of guilt.

_Stop it! _Sunday chided himself. _You know something like this has happened before, and she does too. Don't go there. You CAN'T go there, and you know why._

In a slight daze, he exited as well. He saw her head down to her room, one hand on the wall as if to steady herself. She seemed a bit dizzy. He almost called for her, then changed his mind and gravitated towards his bonsai tree instead.

* * *

Two hours later, Saturday found Friday near her usual haunt, watching some love-advice talk show.

"Hey, Friday? Could we talk for a bit?"

"Sssh, one moment, dear," Friday said, holding up her index finger. Her hair was still damp, and she wore a towel on her shoulders to soak up excess water.

The TV rambled on. "My two apartment mates have always hated each other, and I think they're in love!" some whiny college girl moaned. "Years ago, she tried telling him, and he blew her off, so she loathed him, but I know those old feelings are blooming again!"

_Yes, because that's SO likely, _Saturday thought. The girl talked so fast she didn't even know how the talk show host understood what in the House she was saying.

"Fascinating," sighed Friday. "Mortals and their mortal problems. This is so educational. I should start taking notes."

The doorbell rang, and Wednesday rushed out of the kitchen with a squeal of "RICHARD!" Saturday scowled. Wednesday was wearing an evening gown, and she recalled today was the scheduled, totally-disapproved, ridiculous romantic distraction known as a _date_.

_She doesn't even know what romance is, _Saturday thought sourly.

_You're a Denizen. You don't know what love is, _mocked the Piper that haunted her dreams. Saturday pushed him out of her mind, returning to the task at hand.

"Friday, I need to thank you," she said. "You stopped me from making the second-biggest mistake of my life."

"What was that?" Friday replied absentmindedly, flipping channels idly.

"I nearly kissed Lord Sunday."

Friday burst out laughing.

"I'm serious!" Saturday exclaimed, indignant.

"Saturday, since he told you that you're nowhere close to good enough for him at least three million years ago, it's widely known he would never. And you hate him!"

"That's the problem!" she groaned, exasperated. "I do hate him, but some part of me- I mean, three million years is plenty of time to recover, but- er, my point is, I can't stand him, and yet I've nearly kissed him!"

"You're confused, dear," Friday said succinctly. "Maybe he bewitched you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Saturday sighed, and let out a long exhale of breath.

"I bet it's because he looks like his brother," Friday said. "Or maybe his brother looks like him, since Sunday's older."

"What? You're going to have to explain that one to me."

"Well, you were going to marry the Piper," Friday shrugged. "It happens all the time with mortals. Someone who looks a lot like a previous being you've had an affection towards also elicits feelings of companionship and ease, just because of their physical appearance."

"But I killed the Piper!" Saturday protested. "Or tried to, in any case."

"Well, you catch my drift. Y'know, I think you should study psychology. It might help you a bit, dear."

Saturday shook her head. For the first time since their argument, she badly wanted to reconcile with Wednesday. She would've known what to say, how to make her feel better, exactly how to fix things. Saturday wanted a friend to talk to, a sympathetic ear.

_I'm lonely, _Saturday realized, _and I think I've been lonely for a long, long time._

* * *

_"Phineas!"_

_ The man turned, his emerald eyes shining in the light of the hung strom lanterns. "Sa-"_

_ "Ssh!" She pressed a finger against his lips. "Quiet."_

_ "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a harsh whisper. "You're supposed to be with Mother."_

_ "I know, but-"_

_ "The Piper must be looking everywhere for you!"_

_ "I know!" _

_ The firmness of her response startled him. "Saturday, tell me what's going on."_

_ "That's not my name, Phineas."_

_ He stood straighter and lifted his chin. "I am Lord Sunday, and you are Saturday, my underling. Tell me what's going on- that's an order."_

_ Saturday took a step back. "Well, the Piper has been telling me about an emotion- love- that he and you have, and that I'm supposed to feel towards him. The Architect said so, at least, and She wants us to marry… I know that she knows best, but I'm not quite sure I'm certain what love is. I think I have it-"_

_ "Shouldn't you be telling my brother this?" he asked, a bit rudely._

_ "Well, um, I haven't finished. I think I have it, but not for him. I think I have it…" She slowed down and looked him in the eye. "…I think I have it for you."_

_ "What would you know?" he shot back. "You're a Denizen. You don't know what love is. You just do what the Architect tells you to, with a smile on your face and no complaints. You Denizens are like mannequins. You know nothing of emotion or affection. Of course, mortals aren't any better. They're TOO obsessed with those things. I am perfect, the blend… so I know the faults of each side. You know nothing of emotion and affection. You are a slave to another power."_

_ "Every living thing's a slave," she said. "I could learn."_

_ "You want to learn?"_

_ "Yes. Would you teach me?"_

_ "Are you serious?" He began to walk away, anger swelling in him. She had no right to talk to him about things such as love. She had no clue what she was speaking about. Oh well. Mother would fix this; after all, she was Mother's creation, Mother's doll, and thus Mother's problem._

_ "Phineas!" she called after him. "Don't go!"_

_ "I am Lord Sunday," he growled, not looking at her. "Remember that, Saturday."_

_ "That is not my name," she pleaded. "Please, call me by my name."_

_ "You and I are Denizens. From now on, all we live for is our work, _Saturday. _We have no need of our names, especially you. For all I care, you should be nameless for all eternity."_

* * *

_The Denizen who would become Saturday collapsed on her bed, sobbing. Mannequins, smiles… she wasn't sure she could put on a smile for the Architect tomorrow when she went down to meet Her- if she even went. It was enormously tempting to just cry on her mattress through the night and morning._

_ Phineas- no, Sunday- was right, to an extent. She had been made to put thoughts and feelings on the backburner, but that didn't mean she had none. However stunted they may be, they were there, and they were hurt._

_ Someone rapped on the door, four quick taps in succession. Saturday sat up._

_ There was a pause, and then a large kick, followed by a high-pitched exclamation of "Ow!"_

_ Saturday threw the door open._

_ "We need a new knocking sequence," Wednesday complained, hopping on one foot and clutching the other. "Secret codes are great and all, but your door's firm!"_

_ "Don't kick it so hard, then," Saturday grinned, wiping away her tears a bit clumsily. "What brings you here, Wednesday?"_

_ "Who?" Wednesday blinked. "Oh, right. Sorry. I'm still getting used to the promotion. You don't have to call me that, sweetie. I'm still good ol'…" She let the sentence die down, rummaging in a handbag about half the size of a purse. "Ah! Here we go!" Wednesday pulled out a two-liter glass. "Would a quick drink make you feel better?"_

_ "How'd you know I was upset?" Saturday asked, ushering Wednesday into her chambers._

_ "The Piper was looking for you, and I know you wouldn't run from your sweetheart unless something was wrong. Everyone does, really. But I'm the only one who came looking," Wednesday replied. "You've been crying for a bit, huh?"_

_ "What makes you say that?"_

_ "Your bed looks like it's been floating in the Border Sea," Wednesday quipped. That made Saturday chuckle a bit, though her pillow was only a little damp. Leave it to Wednesday to exaggerate. _

_ Wednesday poured a glass. "So, do you want to talk about whatever happened before the Piper and Phi- er, I mean, Lord Sunday- tell the whole House, as I'm sure they will?"_

_ Saturday shook her head, took the proffered glass, and sipped at it while Wednesday poured one for herself. Saturday recognized the taste immediately, a warm, rolling flavor composed of various blends and aspects, unique to the House and possibly one of the best things she'd ever had. "Where'd you get this? I thought it was sold only in-"_

_ "Yes, well, the Border Sea is a giant hub of trade- export, import, and whatnot. I sort of snuck it out of a bundle bound for the Upper House- I said it needed to be inspected."_

_ "You naughty thing!" Saturday chided playfully. _

_ Wednesday shrugged, grinning. "Don't tell the Architect," she laughed. "That's abuse of power right there! She wouldn't be pleased."_

_ Saturday winked. "Worry not, m'dear. Your secret is safe with me! No matter what, I'll have your back- that's a promise."_

_ "And I'll have yours," Wednesday vowed, "even if the world comes crashing down."_

_ "Yes," agreed Saturday. "We need to look out for one another. Even if the world comes crashing down."_

* * *

Sunday stopped. He'd realized he'd accidentally snipped off half the leaves on his bonsai's limbs. Poor plant. Sunday loved plants, because they were so simple- unlike the rest of the Universe, which he still didn't understand, even after millennia.

He heard someone leave the apartment, some slight under-the-breath cursing at the curtain and wondering when the door would finally get there. He'd forgotten; Saturday had to tutor Arthur. It was a bit late to go tutoring, but Arthur had insisted that she come back at that time, saying he and Bob had something to do together until about eight thirty.

Sighing, Sunday noticed Thursday eyeing him. "Yes?"

"Nothing."

"Hey," he said, on a spur of the moment, "what do you do if your Denizen side hates someone but your mortal side doesn't?"

"I wouldn't know," Thursday shrugged. "I don't have a mortal side. But if you're having that problem, then you have a split personality, and you need help."

"Thanks."

"Anytime, milord."

* * *

Thursday was not in the mood to talk at dinner. He was reflecting, instead, thinking about the vast change he and the others had gone through. Some of them he welcomed. Some of them, he loathed.

Thursday had, that morning, woken before sunrise and shaved, the routine so engraved into him that it gave him comfort. Even with his House destroyed, this remained the same. Part of it was habit, and part of it was to give himself a small dose of normalcy, a tiny return to what once was.

Then, as was his morning ritual, he had climbed to the roof of the apartment building via some stairs that he probably shouldn't be accessing but didn't care about. Sitting on the edge, dangling his feet over, he watched the sun herald the pink-cheeked morning sky.

_"Don't give up. You can change, I know it! Your world isn't ending." _

Thursday reached for the phantom voice, but it was gone, snatched by the wind. Thursday scowled and punched the brick next to him, cracking it. He rubbed away some skin on his knuckles, and several small beads of blue blood appeared, but he flicked them away. "My world has ended," he muttered, "and it's begun again…"

But it was no comfort. He could watch all the sunrises he wanted, track the sun across the sky to its peak position all day, and wait for the night, but he still wouldn't have his Dusk, Noon…

Or Dawn.

* * *

**A/N: The first scene was so awkward to write! Oh well. It's over now. Moving on... There's a lot of back story here, flashbacks, whatnot. The next chapter will be about Wednesday and her (boyfriend?) landlord Mr. Richard Ronne.**

**Again, please review if you liked it! It really helps me improve. I would especially like feedback for this chapter; it was so difficult to write!**


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